When we returned to the village, the sun had already risen. The sky was painted in soft orange shades tinged with gold, as if trying to wash away the long night with all its tension and confusing events. The air was slightly cold—refreshing, yet heavy with silence. The ground beneath our feet was still damp from the morning dew, and the sound of our footsteps echoed clearly through the nearly empty streets.
The employer spoke in a serious voice as he looked at us:
"We need to go to the nearest hospital."
We began walking quickly, without discussion, as if we were all silently in agreement that time was not on our side. Our eyes occasionally met in brief, tense glances. We passed shuttered shops, small houses with wooden windows, and a few villagers who had already started their day. Some stared at us with confusion, others with silent curiosity.
Finally, we arrived at the hospital.
It was located on a small hill at the edge of the village, its structure somewhat old but still standing strong. The stones of its walls were a faded gray, worn at the corners by time. Large windows were framed with dull black iron. Above the main entrance, a wooden sign read "Hildar Clinic" in a classical script that had nearly faded after enduring countless winters and summers.
Reagan pushed open the heavy wooden door, and we entered.
The strong, familiar scent of disinfectant greeted us. The white polished tile floor reflected the light coming through the high windows. Wooden benches lined both sides of the hallway, occupied by a few patients and their weary companions. The walls were decorated with faded, cheerful drawings of children—an attempt to brighten the mood—but the overall atmosphere remained strangely quiet.
...
As soon as we stepped inside, a man in a white medical coat rushed toward us. He wore slightly thick, round glasses framed with old-fashioned metal. His hair was completely white but neatly combed, reflecting a disciplined personality. His face was sharp, and his eyes carried a piercing, experienced look—whether in medicine or life itself, I couldn't tell.
---
He approached quickly and stared at Marcus, who was being carried in the employer's arms, then said in a firm tone, without hesitation:
"His condition is critical. We need to operate immediately!"
There was no time for questions. With practiced movements, he carefully but swiftly took Marcus from the employer's arms—as if his body was used to emergencies like this—then turned and rushed down a narrow hallway at the far end of the room, leading to the emergency wing. His heavy footsteps echoed through the silent air.
We stood frozen for a few seconds, then sat on the wooden benches along the corridor, our eyes locked on the door that had swallowed him and Marcus. No one spoke. It felt as if any word would either be false hope or premature despair. Silence ruled the moment.
We waited… for that moment when the doctor would return and tell us the truth, whatever it was.
---
Time passed with a torturous slowness as we sat in front of the emergency room. The wooden benches felt harder than usual, and each minute stretched into an hour. Silence dominated the air, broken only by the faint ticking of a distant clock and the occasional footsteps of tired nurses whose eyes avoided everyone.
Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through my left thigh—as if something long dormant had awakened. The pain crept in slowly, then intensified into stabbing jolts. My face tightened, and I clenched my teeth to avoid making a sound.
That's when I remembered—I had hurt myself during the battle. I hadn't noticed it at the time; the fear and pressure had numbed everything. My body couldn't afford to feel anything then, just as I couldn't afford to back down.
But now, in the stillness of the moment, the pain had returned to claim its due.
I looked at the ground, trying to ignore the burning in my leg, but one thought kept pounding in my head: I don't have enough money. All I had was a hard-earned hundred dollars. Every cent I'd spent so far had been calculated like a starving man counting crumbs. A check-up? Treatment? Any medical attention would cost more than I could afford right now.
Worse still... we had left the monster's corpse behind. We didn't take it with us, which meant we had lost the biggest reward. I, in particular, had done nothing of note in the fight. I was merely dead weight trying to survive. So how could I ask for any share of a reward? I wouldn't get anything. That much was clear.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to stay composed. There was no room for weakness. In this world, pain didn't matter if you had no money, and no one stopped to ask if you were okay.
Hours passed, unbearably heavy.
Then… the door opened.
The same doctor returned. A light sheen of sweat coated his forehead, and his glasses had slipped slightly down his nose. His steps were slow, his eyes scanning the room for us, but his expression revealed nothing. We all stood up, as if something inside us had snapped to attention without permission.
He stopped in front of us and spoke in a tired, yet reassuring voice:
"Fortunately... the surgery was successful. But his condition is still critical, and he needs to remain asleep for the rest of the day. He'll need regular medication for a month to prevent spasms or complications."
A wave of relief surged through me. He made it.
But in a quiet corner of my heart, a small disappointment waited. No one noticed my injury. Not even the employer, who had seen me dragging myself at the end of the battle. He hadn't said a word. Hadn't asked.
Maybe I expected too much… or maybe I was just starting to understand how this world works.
...
As soon as the doctor finished speaking, the employer asked, his tone as serious as ever:
"So… now that you've treated him, how much do we owe you?"
The doctor raised his eyebrows in surprise, then gave a faint smile and said:
"Owe? Money? No, no, sir. I think you misunderstood me… This clinic treats the injured for free. You don't have to pay anything."
The employer froze in place, his voice filled with disbelief:
"What? A clinic that saves lives without asking for anything? How can a place like this even exist?"
He wasn't the only one shocked. Even I… back in my old world, I rarely heard of such things, and when I did, they were often wrapped in hidden conditions or government-backed funding. The idea of someone treating another for free seemed almost mythical.
But then… a thought occurred to me.
If this place treats the injured for free… could I tell the doctor about my wound? The pain in my thigh hadn't stopped in hours—if anything, it was getting worse. But… how would I look if I did? Like a beggar? A man with no money asking for free treatment? The shame was already weighing me down before I even opened my mouth.
My thoughts were interrupted by the employer again, questioning the doctor in a skeptical tone:
"What's the point of a clinic that operates without charging? You need money to keep running. How does this place survive?"
The doctor smiled calmly and answered simply:
"Oh, don't worry… I'm a wealthy man. I pay all the costs—nurses, doctors, everything. We don't need outside funding. As for the reason… I do it out of kindness."
Out of kindness?
I repeated the phrase in my mind slowly, as if tasting it for the first time. Do people like that really exist? People who ask for nothing… just because they're kind?
I didn't need an answer. The employer's laugh broke my thoughts again:
"Out of kindness? Hahaha, right… sure. Well, thank you anyway."
The doctor's face showed a hint of confusion, but he said nothing more.
---
He gave me nothing but a silent look, while the employer simply said:
"Let's go."
We began to walk out, but before I could take my second step, I heard the doctor call out:
"Wait… it seems your leg isn't in good shape. You'd better let me treat it now."
I froze in place.
I turned to him, stunned. How… how did he know? I was sure I had hidden the pain well. Even the way I walked—I'd forced it to look as natural as possible.
The doctor continued, offering a reassuring smile:
"Don't worry, I won't charge you a single coin."
I looked at the employer and reagan . The employer eyes were fixed on me, surprise clear in his expression. But it wasn't just surprise—there was something else… something that resembled regret. As if he'd just remembered I was injured. As if he hadn't ignored me on purpose… but had simply forgotten.
The doctor's calm voice interrupted the storm of thoughts in my head:
"Well? What's your decision?"
I looked at him… then down at my leg, where the pain was beginning to rise—crawling higher and higher until it nearly reached my skull.
I told myself, This opportunity has come to me on its own… why should I turn it away?
I hesitated for a moment, but then I made my decision. I looked him in the eye and said:
"All right… yes, the pain's unbearable. I'd be grateful if you could treat me."